The Monastery
by RenaUke
Summary: English monks were no threat. / In which some Nordic Vikings pillage some poor defenseless monks, and Sweden lets velvet sit in the bilgewater. SveFin, kind of.


SveFin set in Viking Times, back when they were raiding English monasteries. You'll note Finland is not a Viking. At the time his people were just Saami natives and Swedish settlers (as I understand it). At any rate, not a real Viking fighter.

There are some historical squishies here. 1) Denmark was nobody's overlord yet. But then, he's always considered himself King of the North, so there you go. 2) Vikings probably didn't wear tabards, especially not warlords. But it was a convenient piece of clothing to use.

Say something if you can't understand Sve. Because, really, it isn't so awfully difficult, but if you want/need translation, say so.

End is meh.

* * *

English monks were no threat. Danmark lead the rush up the beach to the unmenacing walls. Norge followed close behind, his eyes lit by blood-lust, and his usually stoic face split in a savage smile to match Danmark's. Sverige ran in the body of the men, face expressionless save for the beginnings of a nearsighted squint, the width of his shoulders nearly doubled by the thick fur cloak around them. He wore his axe in his belt, instead brandishing a longsword; Danmark wielded two enormous axes, one in each hand, and Norge carried one axe held high, with a short sword and throwing axe tucked in his belt. As they burst through the unguarded gates, the monks scattered like frightened birds. One stood in the way, thick black eyebrows extending halfway up his forehead. Danmark dealt him a powerful thwack with the flat of his left-hand axe. The monk collapsed against the wall. Danmark and Norge continued thus, axes flailing. Some monks were only thwacked unconscious, but others were not so lucky, and there was blood on Danmark's axes when they crashed heavily into the wooden doors of the abbey chapel.  
Sverige, hanging back because of his imperfect eyesight, stalked past the first crumpled monk and heard him groan. He turned to the wall and thrust his sword into the ground, dangerously close to the man's head. When alarmed green eyes opened under the thick eyebrows, Sverige knelt over him and lifted his shoulders roughly. He said nothing, but stared menacingly at the small Englishman for a long moment. The monk took the hint, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. Sverige let him fall to the ground, stood, and pulled the sword out of the earth, as easily as if he had stabbed it into a pile of feathers. By now Dan, Nor, and the men had cracked into the buildings, and were beginning to emerge carrying the relics of this peculiar English religion cast in silver and gold. Sverige tucked his sword into his belt and offered his large hands to his brother Vikings, feeling no need to swing a blade at fleeing monks who posed no threat. His thick arms were quickly filled with silver relics, rich tapestry, and a box of something unspecified. He successfully lugged his burden to the gate before the many pieces began to escape his grasp. Sverige dumped the load in a pile, spread a piece of red fabric that he found among the spoils on the ground, and gathered the rest of the loot within it. With this neater bundle over his sturdy shoulder, Sverige returned to the longboat to oversee the packing of the plunder.

When the longboats returned, sailing up the Danish fjord, the town people who were not seafaring warriors turned out in force to meet them. Very soon the mass of precious booty was spread thin over the pebble beach. Sverige carried his red wrapped burden to Suomi waiting among the crowd on the shore and let it fall on the damp ground.  
"What are you doing?" exclaimed Suomi, jerking the red cloth out from under the gold and silver.  
"Hn?" replied Sverige, kneeling to spread the relics in a single layer. Suomi held the fabric up, spreading it between his hands.  
"I think this is velvet, Sve," he said reproachfully, inspecting the piled fabric. "I think so. What's this stain? You let this sit in bilgewater, didn't you?" Sverige looked up, apologetic for his foolishness. Suomi set the fabric lightly against his head for a moment.  
"It's all right. There's only the one stained spot. We can salvage this. I think we could get a tabard for you out of it." Sverige shook his great shaggy head.  
"Nn, don' l'k red." Suomi gathered the fabric to his chest and knelt over the silver, leaning his forehead against Sve's temple.  
"Don't let Dan or Nor hear that, Routsi." He leaned back to look Sve in the eye. "Besides, I can't bear to waste velvet." At that moment Danmark walked by. Suomi leaped up and extended the fabric towards him.  
"Look at this velvet, Danmark!" he said with wonder, offering an unstained portion for inspection. "Isn't it beautiful? This color is so rich!" As Suomi turned the fabric, he saw Danmark's eyes light with unconscious greed. The Dane placed a hand on the velvet, feeling the pile. Suomi extended the fabric further.  
"There's a few stains, but I think it's salvageable." Danmark nodded, his hand still on the fabric. "There's probably enough for a tabard, or a tunic if I really stretch it. Would you like a red velvet tabard, Danmark?" Danmark immediately retracted his hand, every inch a Viking chieftain.  
"Yes, Finlandi. I look forward to the garment." Danmark strode away, and Suomi breathed a sigh of relief. Sverige looked at him thankfully.

* * *

Oh you see what I did there? England is a monk! Good thing the guy is so distinctive to the description, because I couldn't really come right out with his name (since Sve doesn't really know him at this point.)


End file.
